Night & Day
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: It's all fun and games until the truth comes out. What starts out as an evening of spirits and fun turns sour when Sherlock throws back a shot at the wrong moment. A gift for ladylillianrose - complete in three parts. *now complete*
1. Game Night

_This bit of fun is for_ ladylillianrose _, hope you like it, hun. Big thanks to Mizjoley for her betaing but the mistakes are all mine. It's complete in three parts. No warnings, just fun, smut and a dash of light angst._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **\- Game Night -**

"Almost finished?" Sherlock asked impatiently as Molly continued to mindlessly clean the morgue. Why in God's name she, a fully qualified pathologist, was doing menial labour was beyond him. Ignoring his question, she continued her impassioned scrubbing. "Molly! We're going to be late for our ridiculous social intermingling. You know how fussy John gets if we aren't there on time." She still needed to shower, something she always did after an autopsy unless she was going straight home.

"You _can_ go without me, you know," she tossed over her shoulder, as she gathered up the last of the instruments and headed to the autoclave.

 _As if I would._ "I'd rather not. We're to meet yet another of John's newest conquests and if she asks me about the damn ear hat like the last one…"

Molly laughed. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"We always go to game night together," he answered bewildered.

"No, I mean, why have you been here most of the day?"

 _Because you're here._ "Bored. No one is killing anyone. It's rude."

Turning, she sighed, an odd look on her face. "All finished. A quick shower and we'll be on our way to another exciting game night at John's."

o0o0o

Two and a half hours later, they were sat in John's front room along with Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Philip Anderson (much to Sherlock's chigrin) and Sergeants Hopkins and Donovan. Oddly enough, Sherlock no longer hated the latter; the only emotion he could muster towards the woman was mild annoyance (and occasional begrudging respect- not that he'd ever express that, of course). John was there, obviously, sat next to... Louisea? Layla? That's it, Layla! God, what was the point of remembering them? At least he was being careful; his best friend had yet to introduce one of his _young_ ladies to Rosie. None of them had made the cut.

"Can I get you a refill, Lilliana?" John asked his date.

 _Oh, well. I was close._ He then remembered Molly commenting on the woman's name during lunch. John had told him that she was thirty. _She couldn't be a day over twenty-four._ Hopefully, this was some sort of phase.

"Please," she answered. "What's next, by the way?"

They had just finished a round of Win, Lose or Draw which he and Molly had won handily. Somehow, ever since an ill-fated evening when he'd been partnered with Anderson for a game of charades, he'd always ended up with Molly as a partner. It was fortunate for him, however, that Molly was fiercely competitive. He was about to open his mouth and suggest Trivial Pursuit when the new girl squealed excitedly.

"Ooo, why don't we play Never Have I Ever!?"

Donovan laughed derisively. "Because we aren't 14?"

The newcomer's face fell. "Oh, right… sorry."

John noticed and said, "No, that's… that's a great idea," leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"What the bloody hell is Never Have I Ever?" Sherlock asked.

o0o0o

A drinking game, of course! The first three rounds had managed to bring the entire group to the very edge of inebriation. Except for Anderson, it seemed he'd Never Ever done anything. Even Sherlock was feeling tipsy.

Whenever someone mentioned an activity that you had once participated in, you had to drink a shot of rum. _If this is what I've missed out on by being an isolated intellectual, I'm okay with that,_ he thought as the group laughed at Lilliana's question. _Damn, I missed it._ "What was that?" he asked.

"I said: never have I ever had sex with someone in this room," she repeated with pink cheeks.

"Then she said that she had plans on changing that later tonight," Anderson explained, grinning lecherously.

Everyone laughed again as John cleared his throat and glared. "All right, go ahead, _Philip_ ," he said, nodding at the glass in front of the forensic tech. "Mustn't cheat!"

"Fine," he said, downing a shot of rum.

Sally Donovan rolled her eyes and drank her shot as well.

Lilliana clapped and squealed again, "This is so much fun!"

That's when Sherlock picked up his glass and threw it back. The room quieted (like 'you could hear a pin drop' silence), most of the occupants looking around trying to figure out WHO Sherlock could have slept with.

His best friend was staring at him. "Ah, Sherlock?" John asked. "Dooo... we need to go over the rules again?"

"Nope." His eyes fell on Molly across from him as she tried to blend into the sofa. " _I'm_ following the rules to the letter… Unlike some."

She glared at him as she sat up slowly and reached for her glass.

"Molly?!" John gasped.

"I knew it!" Anderson shouted.

"No!" Donovan and Hopkins said in unison. Followed by Sally's, "I think I'm gonna be sick!"

"What?" Lilliana asked, confused. "It had to be one of you." She turned to John. "Why is everyone so surprised?"

Molly tossed back the rum then stood. "I, ah, need…" She pointed towards the kitchen before sprinting out of the room.

"My job just got infinitely more difficult," Stamford said with an exaggerated sigh as he picked up his shot and downed it.

"What the bloody hell?" Lestrade asked.

Standing, Sherlock picked up his beer and emptied it. "I'd think the answer is fairly obvious, even for you, Gili," he said before turning to follow.

"I thought his name was Greg?" John's new girl said.

"Isn't that one of the dwarves from The Hobbit?" he heard Anderson say as he crossed the threshold.

She wasn't in the kitchen, so he opened the back door and stepped outside. He found her pacing in the well-lit garden.

"How could you, Sherlock?" she asked with her back to him.

"What did I do, exactly?"

She turned on him, furious. " _All_ of our friends know we had sex!"

"Yes, Molly, I was there. It's the point of the game, after all. To embarrass the participants and make them admit to _doing_ or _not_ doing something salacious or illegal …"

"Shut up! God, just shut up!" she shouted. "What's wrong with you? How can you _not_ know that I wouldn't want anyone to know about that!?"

His blood ran cold. "You're ashamed?" he said before he could stop himself. _Of course she is. Don't you remember..._

Molly huffed out a mirthless laugh. "Of course I am, you idiot! We aren't _together_ and it only happened once. And you just..." She wrapped her arms around her middle. "Do you have any idea how this looks?"

Shaking his head, he said, "No, Molly, I'm sorry, but I don't underst…"

Stepping up to him, she hissed, "Because you don't care for me like that!" She motioned towards the house. "They all know that. And _now_ they know that I let you fuck me, too!"

Her tone was so hateful that it caused Sherlock to jerk back as if physically struck. "Well they do now," he said two seconds later - that was all it took for him to collect himself. He knew without looking that the entire party had followed them to the kitchen and were watching/listening to their exchange. "If you'd managed not to overreact they would have just assumed that we were…"

" _What?"_ she scoffed. "A couple?" Turning and pacing away she said, "Don't be stupid, Sherlock. No one would ever make _that_ assumption."

Sherlock drew a deep breath. _Five months, two weeks and four days._ That's how long it had been since he'd made one of the biggest mistakes of his adult life. The absolute worst deduction he could ever remember making had set off a chain of events that still haunted him daily. Just one night had changed… everything, and nothing at all.

 _One single glorious night._

He'd left as soon as she was asleep, unwilling to wait around for any kind of confrontation. Two hours later, he received a text saying: _It's okay. I understand. Let's never speak of it_. And they didn't… ever. Two weeks of silence, one week of stilted conversation and another of almost unbearable awkwardness and they were back on somewhat even ground. Within three months of _that night_ everything was right with their relationship.

Except…

"Molly," he stepped towards her, placing a hand on her upper arm.

She shrugged him off as she turned. "I'm leaving."

"Good idea. Let me get your jacket and bag…"

Shaking her head, she said, " _We're_ not leaving, Sherlock. I am," before storming away, around the side of the house.

He started to follow her again, but was stopped by John Watson saying his name. "What, John? I have to…"

"I sent Mike with her things. He'll catch her out front."

"Doesn't matter, I need…"

"No. No, you don't. You _need_ to listen to me for once in your bloody life." He was holding out a single cigarette. "Smoke this, then come inside. Everyone will be gone by then."

* * *

John sat across from his best friend and analysed the play of emotions on the man's face. Taking a drink of his scotch, he tried to decide how to proceed. _Sex_. _Sherlock and sex_. _Sherlock, Molly and sex._ Interesting _._ Also, slightly disturbing. _Well, first thing's first._ "When?" he asked.

"About six months ago," the man answered.

He suppressed a scoff. _About?_ Sherlock Holmes didn't estimate anything. "Why?"

"Why not?" the detective said offhandedly, as if this _wasn't_ monumental.

This time John didn't hold back his snort of annoyance. "Don't get stroppy with me, mate! I'm not the one who broke Molly Hooper's heart!"

Standing, Sherlock paced across the room. "Melodrama doesn't suit you, John."

"And willful ignorance doesn't suit _you_ ," he said, rising he followed the other man. "Don't screw with me, Sherlock, just tell me what happened."

He whipped around, his eyes wide with anger. "I assume you're acquainted with casual sex, Doctor, you've certainly had enough of it." What had started out as fury quickly morphed into something altogether unexpected. "I really don't have time for this, John," he said defeatedly.

" _Bloody hell, Sherlock…"_ he whispered when he saw the look on his best friend's face. _What the hell's going on?_ John knew that look. _That's how you look after your heart's been broken._ "Hey," he said, reaching out and gently touching Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's sit, yeah? Just... tell me what happened."

With a fair amount of reluctance, the man sat. John followed, refilling both their glasses. After several minutes, Sherlock started to talk.

"It was… I didn't intend to…I didn't intend for that to happen," he said, sounding very much not like himself. "Not originally, at least. It's not why I went to her that night."

"All right, okay. And I don't need details, Sherlock but…" John paused, trying to decide how best to get to the heart of the matter. Because he knew one thing: Sherlock wasn't going to share much. Then it finally hit him. "What happened after? What exactly did you do?"

A sour look crossed the man's face as he said, "It wasn't after. And it wasn't _me_."

* * *

 _Two more chapters to go. I promise more laughs (and some smut, for good measure) are coming up. Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think. ~Lil~_


	2. Danger Night

_All right, before we get on with the fun bits, I need to apologize. I seem to have led many of you (most, actually) down the wrong path. I'm referring to this sentence in the previous chapter:_

 **"My job just got infinitely more difficult," Stamford said with an exaggerated sigh as he picked up his shot and downed it.**

 _Yeah, Mike didn't sleep with anyone that was attending Game Night. He did the shot because he was anticipating 'Molly and Sherlock Issues' in his future. If you read this as him still playing the game, it's not your fault, it's MINE! (Bad author!) And the worst part is that when Miz beta'd the chapter, she made a note saying 'whoooo?'. I have no defense, other than to say that I had some very distracting events happen that morning in my RL when I was editing and posting. I simply didn't catch her meaning and didn't realize that my wording could be misconstrued. Sigh._ _Now that we've established what a dingus I am..._

 _I need to thank MrsMCrieff for 'encouraging' me to write the sex. I wasn't sure if I should include it, so I asked her after I'd finished the first thousand words or so. She said something to the effect of 'um, yes! of course! do it!' (followed by some kind of veiled threat, if I remember correctly). And of course Miz for beting and being super wonderful. Any mistakes (like making you all think that Mike slept with Mrs. Hudson or somesuch) belong to me!  
_

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **Danger Night**

 _Five months, two weeks, four days prior..._

It was a Danger Night if he'd ever experienced one. John was far too busy with Rosamund (the terrible twos had started a bit early for young Watson) and didn't need his problems on top of everything else. He'd already annoyed Lestrade to the point of shouting and throwing brios. Pointless, really, since the DI had no cases to distract him. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the weekend. The two were most likely baked at the moment, watching _Outlander_ and making irreverent comments about young men and kilts. Even Billy Wiggins was useless at the moment; being in a rehab centre made him a bit unavailable. Sherlock had put him there, so it wasn't as if it was some kind of surprise. And Mycroft? Just… no!

Nevertheless, Sherlock needed... someone. The urge had come on suddenly and out of nowhere. As he sat alone in his flat, memories had started assailing him: his childhood, his friend, a sister he only recently remembered. Myc, Mummy, Father. Happier times. And then… utter devastation. The construction of his mind palace. Long, winding corridors and locked rooms.

Those rooms were not only unlocked now, they stood wide open and would not close. Not easily, at least. Usually, his best defense was distraction. When he was alone, however, with no outside influences, a dangerous voice would whisper that the easiest way to quell the memories was a needle to his arm.

So yes, it was a Danger Night and Sherlock Holmes needed someone.

He knew _who_ he needed - his first choice, if he were honest - but this someone came with her own special set of complications. Unforgivable words and fumbled apologies. Old wounds and new, unexplainable… feelings that he'd yet to even begin to process. His palace was still in shambles; he had nowhere to put these strange new emotions. So they remained unsorted, shoved to the back of his mind to be dealt with when he was better, more stable.

Though he didn't want to burden her, thirty-seven minutes later, he was standing in front of her door, knocking. _I should've sent a text_ , he thought as the door opened.

"Sherlock," she said brightly. "What's up?" Stepping back, she welcomed him into the flat, closing the door behind him.

 _Always so welcoming…_ She'd not acted a bit differently since their phone call, even the day he'd called her to Baker Street and attempted to make his explanations. _Excuses_.

Tossing the remote onto the coffee table, she faced him expectantly and asked, "Do you need me at Barts?"

She was dressed for an evening in front of the telly: yoga pants, an oversized jumper and warm, fuzzy socks. Her hair was down and freshly washed, he noted. "No," Sherlock answered. "No case tonight, I'm afraid."

With a flash of understanding in her eyes, Molly nodded and gave him a knowing smile. There was sadness there too, though she tried to hide it. "Tea?"

"Of course."

o0o0o0o

Two hours later found them on the settee, Toby dutifully curled up on the detective's lap, purring contentedly. The cat purred even louder when Sherlock scratched him behind his ears, not that he did on purpose, of course. They were on their second episode of something called _Primeval_.

He rolled his eyes as he watched portals to the distant past open randomly - _of course it's not random; someone's clearly controlling them!_ \- allowing prehistoric creatures to wreak havoc on modern-day London. _Ridiculous premise for a show_.

She had already threatened him into _silently_ deducing everything that was wrong with the programme, so he sat and kept his scathing commentary to himself. It was the least he could do; she _had_ fed him cheese toast, crisps and his favourite biscuits.

When it was over, Molly looked at him and smiled. "Not your thing?" He gave her his ' _I'm not dignifying that with an answer'_ look, causing her to snicker. "Noted. We'll try _Fringe_ next time. I think you'll like that one."

She stood, picking up their dishes, and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock followed, watching as she ran the sink half-full of soapy water.

"As long as there are no portals or time travel, I'll give it a chance."

"Umm, no. No _portals_. No time travel." She set the dishes in the sink.

"Why do I feel like you're talking in technicalities, Miss Hooper?"

She didn't respond, just laughed as she started cleaning the dishes.

"Are you staying?" she asked as she rinsed the cup she'd just washed.

He shouldn't. Shouldn't _need_ to, that is. He should be able to go home - like the grown man that he was - and sleep in his own damn bed. But that wasn't what he wanted. Nodding, he picked up a dish towel and absently dried a plate.

"I just washed the bedding in the spare," she said as she finished the last dish, turning and drying her hands on the towel he'd been using.

Sherlock nodded again, suddenly unable to speak. Hs silence didn't seem to bother Molly; she just smiled and motioned for him to follow. Once they were in the room, she turned down the bed - like some doting aunt - patted his arm and left.

He sat on the edge of the bed for all of five minutes before he realised that he needed his sleep clothes. Molly kept some of his clothes in her room. The spare was more of a study with a writing desk, Toby's cat tree and, of course, his bed. There was no room for a dresser or chest of drawers.

Walking out of the room, he made his way towards Molly's, only to find her door ajar. She was... changing. Her back was turned and she was down to her pants, nothing more.

Molly Hooper stood in front of him in naught but a pair of lavender coloured knickers. Her skin soft, smooth and pale, though that didn't surprise him - she never got much sun - but she fairly glowed in the soft light of her bedroom. The curve of her buttocks, however, _did_ surprise him. She filled out those knickers in ways which he wasn't prepared.

Her legs seemed longer, somehow. Probably the lack of clothing. And her back… God, he wanted to touch it. He wanted to lay a series of kisses up her vertebrae and mark the base of her neck.

His cock seemed to like that idea.

He started to move away, and to scold his member for an inappropriate response to his friend's body (conveniently, ignoring his _own_ salacious thoughts for the time being). Then she turned, ever so slightly, and he saw the outer edge of her right breast.

Oh, it was a beautiful sight. Small, firm, pert. Slightly upturned at the tip. He felt his mouth water and licked his lips without conscious thought.

His mind was divided. Half was focused on Molly's lovely form, the other half was trying to remember when he'd last time seen a woman so scantily clad… _Oh, right,_ _The Woman_. He scoffed at the side beside image. There was no comparison. Irene's unabashed sexuality - which she wore like an armor, as if she were always ready to do battle - as opposed to Molly's unassuming curves - soft, feminine, inviting.

Unfortunately, his scoff was audible and caused her to turn. "Sherlock! Wh-what are you doing?" She brought a single arm up to cover her breasts. The movement almost seemed casual. Later he would recognise it as carefully controlled.

"Ah, sorry," he said quickly. "I need… clothes?"

Her eyes scanned him, head to toe and back again, stopping at his groin.

 _Damn_. There was no hiding his excitement. He was only wearing trousers and an oxford. The bulge was likely unmistakable.

Molly turned away from him and said, "Can… Would you look away, please?"

As he did, it occurred to him that she was already dressed for bed when he came over. What exactly was she doing just now? "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Why were you changing?"

"You can turn back now."

He did, but he wasn't prepared for her to be dressed in a tee shirt that barely covered her pants.

"I was changing, Sherlock," she answered haughtily as she sat on the edge of the bed and plugged her mobile up to the charger. "You know where your clothes are."

Her eyes were now focused on her phone, possibly setting an alarm. _No, she's off tomorrow._ She was sat there in nothing but a tee shirt, fiddling with her mobile. _Curious_.

Sherlock slowly made his way to her dresser and squatted down to open the bottom drawer. "You were already dressed for bed, Molly," he commented as he moved a pair of jeans ( _Tom's - why does she still have these?_ ) to find his second favourite lounge pants and a tee shirt.

Molly huffed out a laugh. "You really think I sleep in yoga pants and jumpers?" She set down her mobile and swung her legs up onto the bed, covering up her naked lower half in the process. A small (okay, not so small) part of him lamented the loss of the view. "What do you sleep in?"

Turning to face her, he held up his clothes.

"Umm, no, I don't think so." She looked at him appraisingly then said, "You sleep in the nude, normally. At home, that is, and who could blame you? Those sheets..."

"What do you know of my sheets?"

"Did your laundry when you had the flu and Mrs. Hudson was in Brighton with her sister. I know things."

"Fine. But what do…?"

"What do your sheets tell me about your sleep clothes?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak - to say something about John being a gossip - but she continued, "Elementary, my friend." Leaning forward, Molly gave him a saucy little grin. "They're just another piece of the puzzle."

"There's no puzzle!" he protested.

"You're not the only one who likes to figure things out, you know."

Oh, he was very much intrigued now. Moving forward, he tossed his clothes to the foot of the bed and sat on the edge next to her. Molly didn't seem to mind, just scooted over a bit, making room for him. "And what is it that you think you've figured out?"

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are a closet sensualist."

He snorted. Again, he was just about to protest when she spoke.

"Yes, I know, I know. You're about to tell me how wrong I am, but I disagree." Sitting back against her headboard, she let her eyes roam over his body, it caused an odd tingling sensation to follow in their wake. "Take your clothes, for instance. Only the best for you, no?"

"I like… nice things," he admitted.

Molly laughed, fully and beautifully. "Nice?" she said once she'd composed herself. "Sherlock, your shoes cost more than my computer!"

"I can't help it if you buy shoddy electronics, Molly."

She giggled. But he wasn't kidding; her laptop was a piece of shit. He'd spent two hours the week before, reinstalling the operating system because ' _I just bought it three years ago, Sherlock, it's fine. Just make it work!'_.

"Let's not forget the silk dressing gowns."

 _Wonderful, she's not done._

"And cashmere scarf."

 _A gift from Mummy!_

"Oh! The Belstaff! How did I forget the Belstaff!" she exclaimed.

"Why are you attacking my coat?"

"It's not a coat, Sherlock, it's got its own personality. I considered adding it to my guest list when I was planning my wedding."

The mention of her failed relationship caused a spike of pain to surge through his chest. He glared at her as he stood, walking back toward her dresser, he said, "Fine, you've made your point."

"I'm not sure I have."

He was being deduced and he didn't like it one bit. Spinning around, he planted his hands on his hips. "As if _you_ don't enjoy the occasional extravagance from time to time!"

"I didn't say…"

"How about the plethora of bath products that currently reside in your lavatory?" He pointed towards the room in question.

"I suppose I do…"

"And then there's your coffee! Or, perhaps you _need_ Jamaican Blue Mountain Estate at fifty pounds a bag?"

Her eyes danced with mirth. "You don't complain about soaking in my bath salts whilst sipping on a big mug after a grueling case, Mr. Sensuality!" She laughed.

 _Damn, she's right._ The first time he'd had a cup Molly's coffee, he'd taken a photo of the bag and immediately (once he was alone, of course) ordered himself some. _That stuff's otherworldly good! And who doesn't like a nice soak?_

"Now, let's get back to your bed," she said with a cheeky grin.

He couldn't help it, his mind went somewhere altogether inappropriate once again. "Fine, why does my bed make me a sensualist?"

"Egyptian cotton, 1800 thread count."

"Fifteen hundred and there's a very good reason I prefer luxury when I sleep!"

"And that is…?" she taunted as she picked up a bottle of lotion from her bedside table, squirted a dollop onto her palm, put the bottle back then started to rub her hands together.

He was momentarily distracted by her actions for some reason, but pulled his eyes away from her hands and said, "Because I tend to go without sleep for days on end, Molly, it's important to have optimal conditions…"

"Oh no! I'm gonna stop you right there." She held up one moisturised hand before going back to rubbing the lotion in. "I've seen you sleep standing up, Sherlock. You _can_ sleep anywhere when you've been awake for several days." Finally finished with her distracting… rubbing, she eyed him for a minute then leant forward a few inches. "I think you have trouble sleeping if you _haven't_ been out on a case. You're an insomniac."

"Oh, now I'm an insomniac too? Any more baseless accusations you want to throw at me, Molly?"

She giggled and shook her head. "No, that pretty much ends my deductions for the evening."

What he couldn't figure out was why Molly was being so antagonistic. It was very unlike her. Yes, she was just teasing him, which she did from time to time, but this was… His mind raced as he tried to figure out what she was doing. This was different...

 _She's trying to distract me,_ he thought as it slowly came together.

She hadn't even let her embarrassment about being caught nearly naked show outwardly, but rather moved right past it to deducing him. And it no doubt _had_ embarrassed her, of that he was certain. Even with the changes in their relationship - the closeness they now enjoyed, the… dare he say, companionship? - she still could get flustered on occasion. Surely him seeing her in the altogether would be high on her list of 'things that turned Molly Hooper into a stuttering mess'. She hadn't let it though. And not for her sake, but for his. She hadn't let an awkward moment suck him into his cluttered mind, but rather…

 _Oh, you brilliant, wonderful woman!_

With no more awful science fiction shows, no more Toby, no more tea, Molly was trying to fill his head with a new puzzle to solve: _himself_. He couldn't help but smile. _God, I love her…_

 _What the…?_

 _Oh!_

 _I love her._

 _I_ do _love her._

Epiphanies were quite common in Sherlock's line of work. He had a great deal of experience with them though he would never acknowledge or give credence to the term. Far too fanciful for his liking. A _coalescing of facts_ worked better for the scientist in him. However, in this case, an intuitive perception into the essential meaning of something was an apt way of describing what he was experiencing.

 _Well, how do you like that?_

It was why everything with Molly was always more complicated and why he suddenly felt like a first class moron for not realising it sooner. He'd said it at Sherrinford - and meant it - but now he realised just _how_ he'd meant it. He didn't love Molly Hooper the same way he loved John or Mrs. Hudson; he loved her like a man loves a woman.

"Sherlock? You okay?" she asked, rising from the bed. She slowly walked towards him. "You've been standing there for like ten minutes… just sort of staring."

He waved her off. "Working something out."

She smiled, seemingly satisfied with herself. "Good." Picking up his clothes from the end of her bed, she held them out to him. "Why don't you go change and try to get some rest."

"I, ah…" He took them from her and studied them for a moment. An idea was forming. Tossing the garments to the bench at the foot of her bed, he stepped closer. "I think I'd rather sleep as I do at home, if you don't mind."

One side of Molly's mouth quirked up in a half smile. "O...kay. Whatever does the trick, Sherlock, so long as you get some sleep."

As she started to move away, he reached out, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her closer until their bodies almost touched. "I'd also like to sleep in here."

Molly put her hands on his chest, not pushing exactly, but holding him at bay. Her face looked apprehensive. " _Why?_ " she asked, drawing out the word. "Why would you want to be nude… in my bed?"

"I'm sure you know the answer to that, Molly. You claim that I'm a sensualist, after all." Lowering his head slowly, giving her a chance to object, he gently kissed her lips. He kept the contact chaste, a mere press of his lips to hers. _Oh God, how did I ever criticise this mouth?_

Firm pressure on his chest alerted him that she wanted him to stop. He pulled back.

"Why?" she asked again. Her eyes were dilated, but still wary.

Why indeed? It was all too new, his realisation. He couldn't _tell_ her - couldn't express what he'd just discovered - not with words, at least. Not giving himself time to doubt his decision, he went with his first instinct: express his feelings physically. He'd never touched Molly sexually. Surely she'd understand what he was trying to tell her?

Lowering his head once again, he didn't hesitate nor did he give her some gentle kiss. He poured all his feelings and skill - which was far more than anyone would have believed - into _showing_ Molly exactly why he didn't want to leave her bedroom anytime soon.

She resisted for a nanosecond before her hands moved from his chest to his shoulders then higher, to tangle in his hair. By the time his tongue was teasing her lips open, Molly's fingers were digging into his scalp, affirming that he had indeed made the right decision.

Things moved rapidly after that. One minute they were standing upright, kissing passionately, and the next they were on her bed, side by side, grasping at clothing. Molly popped two buttons off Sherlock's shirt trying to get it off him. They paused their mindless groping momentarily to laugh at the flying buttons then got right back to the business of making each other moan.

After many more kisses, several position changes and an awkward moment when Sherlock accidentally pulled Molly's hair, they were both bare.

Thankfully, the room was still brightly lit. Sherlock moved over her, taking in every detail that he'd missed when caught her unawares earlier. "Beautiful," he whispered as his eyes wandered over her body. He wanted to say more but was afraid he'd make a complete fool of himself - say the wrong thing. So instead, he bent down and took her pink-tipped nipple between his lips. Pressing the bud against the roof of his mouth caused Molly to buck up and grip his head tightly.

" _Ooo…"_ she sighed. "Oh - God - Oh!"

He switched sides, needing to taste more of her but Molly was impatient. She was also, as he was finding out, very vocal when aroused.

"I'm… I'm ready!" She tugged roughly on his hair. "Now!"

She might have been, but he wasn't. Oh, he _was_ , of course, but this night was special and he intended to make sure she understood just what it meant to him.

Releasing her nipple with a wet plop, he looked up and smiled. "Soon," was all he said as he kissed a trail down her soft belly. He was pleased to find that Molly Hooper wasn't quite as thin as he had once believed. Her bulky clothing covered her well. She did a good job of hiding all these luscious curves and deliciously smooth skin. He planned on devouring it all.

Once nestled between her thighs, he kissed first the left then the right before spreading her folds.

"You don't have to. I - I said I was ready." Her was voice no longer lust-filled but clear and controlled, tinged with a hint of apprehension.

"I don't _have_ to," he explained softly. "But I want to."

With a gentle kiss to her clitoris, he began. She offered no more protestations as he worked her to a frenzy alternating between lapping and sucking at the sensitive little bud. Molly moaned as he tongued her. She got louder when he stayed on her clit, so he focused his attention there before introducing a finger, then two, looking for the spongy bit of flesh that he knew would help send her over the edge. When he found it, she cursed and buried her hands in his hair, holding him close.

"How… God… Fuck…"

Shortly thereafter she fell apart, her hips bucking up, meeting his face almost painfully as she rode out her climax. Once again, she was quite vocal, calling upon any deity she could think of and cursing like the proverbial sailor.

When she'd finally relaxed with a contented sigh, Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved over her, bracing himself on his forearms. "Condom?" he asked.

"Drawer," she said with a lazy flick of her hand.

Finding it quickly, he managed it with only a minor fumble _\- how many years has it been since I used one of these?_ \- then he was ready and by the looks of it, so was she.

Entering another person after so many years of abstinence should have been overwhelming, especially for someone like Sherlock, but it wasn't. It was bliss. His mind blanked then centered and focused on nothing but Molly. Molly's body. Molly's heat. Molly's pleasure. He couldn't close his eyes, far too enraptured by the look on her face as he drove into her over and over again.

She gripped his shoulders, her nails scoring his flesh. Her eyes were closed tightly and her teeth were caught her bottom lip, biting down as if to stifle herself. He couldn't have that. Her vocalisations had been bloody hot!

He leant down, sealing his mouth over hers and pulling her lip out of her teeth. As he released her he said, "Let me hear you, Molly. Talk to me." Then he kissed her again for good measure and because her swollen lips looked so incredibly inviting.

She had opened her eyes when he started speaking, panting as she rocked against him. "Feels… so… good."

Sherlock could only nod in agreement before burying his head in the crook on her neck and inhaling her fragrant skin.

"Harder! Please!" she begged and he was happy to oblige. "I don't think…"

"What, Molly?" he whispered in her ear before kissing it.

"I won't…"

He still didn't know what she was trying to tell him, but she seemed too lost in her passion to express herself, so he just kissed her again and kept thrusting. As he picked up his pace, twisting his hips on the downstroke, Molly became incoherent. Her words slurring together almost as if she were intoxicated.

"Oh _fuck_! Thatssit!" Her hands moved down to cup his arse cheeks. "Goddamnit! Soooogood! Beddder than jam!"

Sherlock pulled his head from her neck and looked at the babbling woman underneath him _. Jam? What's jam?_

She dug her nails into the sensitive flesh of his buttocks, causing him to thrust even harder. Molly's internal muscles started contracting, undulating around his shaft and he no longer cared that she was comparing him to breakfast condiments.

"Fuckin'fuck! _I'msoclose!_ How? Never! _OhmyGod!_ " Her hands moved frantically to his neck, pulling back down. She kissed his neck, his shoulder, his ear all the while telling him how close she was.

Though he appreciated the updates, they were unnecessary. He could actually _feel_ her oncoming orgasm. She seemed to be fighting for it, for some reason.

"Oh… please don't stop!" she begged her hips surging up to meet his.

 _As if I could,_ he thought as he drove into her again and again. _Fuck!_ Well, that wasn't entirely true... His end was approaching; he needed her to come… soon!

"Please! Please! _Please_!" her words came out in a desperate sob.

Dragging his mouth across her jaw, he found her lips and kissed her deeply, if for no other reason than to stop the desperate sounds coming from them. He didn't like that she had suddenly become… almost sad.

He slowed then adjusted his hips and moved his head to her chest, drawing a deep gasping breath. The action was supposed to slow things down, but inhaling a lung-full of Molly's _sex-smell_ did nothing to stifle his excitement.

It may have been a while, but Sherlock did remember a thing or two about pleasing a partner. Some women needed direct clitoral stimulation to achieve an orgasm. Shifting his weight to his left arm, he slid his right between them. When his hand finally found the spot where they were connected, he focused his attention on the bundle of nerves. He quickly picked back up where he left off: driving both Molly and himself to their ends.

"Christ!" was her immediate response to their new position and Sherlock's fingers on her clit but soon the babbling started once again. Molly held his head to her chest as she mumbled incoherently.

Sherlock was hardly paying attention now, so very close to letting loose in her tight sheath. He only caught every few words.

"Couldn't… So hard… Good… Didn't know… He… He… Never..."

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. His body simply decided that the time had come… that _he_ would come. His balls drew up and he shook with the force of his orgasm. Though it was amazing, better than he could ever remember it being, he did manage Molly's last word as her climax took her…

"Tom!"

… and the scorching hot blood running through his veins instantly turned to ice. " _Wh-what?"_ he asked. Looking down, he saw her lying beneath him, eyes shut tight, head thrown back. Her body was bowed up against his, still in the midst of her orgasm, even as he was quickly coming down.

 _Tom… she said Tom._

Tears threatened but he would _not_ allow them. Never!

Finally, she relaxed, sighing contentedly and smiled. Thankfully, her eyes were still closed. "Amazing," she said with a sigh.

Sherlock rolled off to the side and took care of the condom.

* * *

"She said… _Tom_?" John asked. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock glared at his friend. "It's hardly something I'd make up, now is it?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying, it's just…"

"I've replayed that night in my head a hundred times." Sherlock finished his drink and sat back, looking across the room. "She never said my name. I didn't notice it at the time, but not once that evening did she say 'Sherlock'. Never."

"Never?"

"No."

John thought about what his friend had just told him and tried to make sense of it all. He knew a few things; he wasn't completely useless. Number one: Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes, of that there was no doubt. Secondly: Sherlock was in love? (Okay, that was new, but nevertheless…) _Hear that, Mare? In… Love!_ And finally: Tom? No, just no! John had a feeling this whole thing had something to do with Molly's 'sex babbling'.

"All right," John said. "I hate to tell you this, mate, but you missed something. You always do."

"What are you talking about?"

"You said she _babbled…_ during, ah, thanks for leaving out the details, by the way. And if you were… finishing…" God, he never thought he'd be having this conversation with the man across from him. He felt completely unprepared. "... maybe you missed what she said _before_ 'Tom'."

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock stood and strode across the room. "She said his name, not mine. And she never said my name… ever!"

"Yeah, that _is_ weird, but not unforgivable. So, what happened next?"

Sherlock turned, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I waited until she fell asleep and I left." The last words were almost whispered.

"Like the true grown-up that you are."

"What would you have had me do? Make her breakfast and ask her about it? 'Morning, Molly. About last night, when you called out to another man during our _first_ time making love, what exactly did that mean? Because my theory is that you were having _such_ a hard time achieving orgasm that you had to imagine someone else to do so.'" He paced away.

John stood and followed his best friend. He knew that Sherlock had been in a very fragile place since Sherrinford. To find out that he'd gone through this as well… It was a wonder - a miracle, really - that they hadn't found him high off his arse yet. "How long did it take you to forgive her?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't turn as he spoke. "I couldn't even look at her for two weeks. Ashamed. I was actually ashamed that I had gotten it all so wrong." Facing him, though not making eye contact, his friend continued, "It was… awkward at first. She… She seemed angry. I'm not sure if she even remembers what she said. Blames me, no doubt, for leaving without speaking to her." He looked up and drew a deep breath. "But eventually things went back to normal. Like nothing had ever happened. We were fine until… I shouldn't have taken that shot. I was… I'm sure if I was just drunk or something..."

 _Or it was a very deliberate act meant to force this out into the open,_ John thought. "Is that so? You're completely over the whole thing, then?"

Sherlock just stared, frozen, for more than a minute.

"Listen, I don't know why she said what she said. Though I have my theories. But you'll never know unless you talk to her. Ignoring it hasn't done either of you much good."

The other man didn't acknowledge his words so John reached out and grasped Sherlock's shoulder. "Stay here tonight. I have to get up early to go pick up Rosie from Harry's. I'll wake you before I leave. Think about what I've said and _consider_ talking to Molly."

Sherlock just nodded, and made his way back towards the sitting area. John started for the stairs, then paused.

"But for the love of God, remember this isn't your bedroom! I better not wake up to your naked arse on my new sofa!

* * *

 _So, now we know. Poor Sherlock! Please drop me a line and tell me what you think. I'd love to hear from you on this. Thanks for reading ~Lil~_


	3. Clean Up Day

_I have been blown away by the response to this little fic. I'm so glad you've all enjoyed it (and alternately wanted to punch me). Thank you, guests, for your lovely reviews. They're always appreciated. Once again, givin' props to Miz for all her help but the mistakes are mine._

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

* * *

 **Clean-Up Day**

Morning came, as it was wont to do, and Sherlock was no closer to a decision about the situation. An entire night of Molly musings hadn't done him a bit of good. John came down the stairs, seemingly unsurprised to find him awake and sipping coffee on the sofa. Though he did mention that he was pleased that Sherlock had kept his clothes on all night. _As if I'd strip naked to kip in my best friend's lounge!_ _This isn't the Palace, for God's sake._

Ten minutes after John left Sherlock received a text from the man, asking if he could stay and ' _tidy up a bit, before I come back with a toddler in tow'_ since they'd spent the whole night dealing with _'your Molly problem'_. He scoffed, but got up and started clearing the dishes. Normally he would have sent back a scathing text, telling John 'No, clean up your own damn house and stop it with the stupid game nights, while you're at it', but he was filled with nervous energy (and far too much sub-par coffee), so he jumped at the chance to burn them both off.

He heard the front door open just as he started filling the dishwasher. It was far too soon for John to be back from Hastings, unless he forgot something... Picking up a hand towel, he walked into the lounge and fought back a curse when he saw Molly standing, dumbstruck, her bag clutched to her chest, staring at him from across the room.

 _I'm going to have to kill my best friend!_

"John phoned me," she said. "Asked me to come and…"

"Tidy up," Sherlock finished. "Yes, he asked the same of me."

"And you accepted? Just like that?" She didn't even attempt to hide her disbelief.

"I was already here, so…"

"You spent the night?"

Sherlock nodded and turned to go back into the kitchen. He had dishes to clean and a pathologist to avoid. Only one of his objectives would be met, however, because Molly followed, for some reason. She arrived a minute after him, sans jacket and bag.

Ignoring her, Sherlock continued loading the dishwasher. She didn't speak, just watched him; he could feel her eyes following his every move.

After five minutes, she said, "You're doing it wrong."

He didn't respond, just shoved a wine glass into a slot.

"That's going to break when that plate moves."

He glared at her and picked up another glass. Without looking at the machine, he shoved it into a random spot.

"Now you're being deliberately obstinate."

Straightening up, planted both hands on his hips and said, "Perhaps I'm just really bad at it. Add it to the growing list."

" _What?"_

"Nevermind," he mumbled and started to walk past her, managing to knock his shin on the open door of the washer in the process. It hurt, but he didn't break stride, just continued on into the lounge, intent on finding his jacket and getting out of the house as fast as he could.

"You're just going bolt again!" she said from behind him, her voice slightly raised, not quite a shout, but close. "Why am I not surprised!"

His jacket was crumpled up in the corner of the chair he'd occupied for several hours the night before. He didn't even remember taking it off. Picking it up, he shook it out and tried to make it look like the expensive piece of clothing it once resembled.

"I see no point in staying," he said as he donned the wrinkled jacket. Turning, he faced her but did not, _could not_ meet her eyes. Sheer will and stubbornness had forced him back to Barts after two weeks. An unwillingness to be without her in his life - in _some_ capacity - made him speak first, pretending that nothing had ever happened. Yes, it had taken time, but they'd managed… then. Now, however, he wasn't sure if they could ever find that middle ground again. At the moment, all he wanted to do was run. "You'll obviously do a better job of cleaning John's house than I ever would."

He made it as far as the door before stopped him. "Could you answer one question for me? Please?"

Nodding, he kept his eyes trained on the painted wood in front of him.

"Why?" she asked. "Was it just a really bad night? Was it _so_ bad that you needed something… different to distract you and I was… just there? Because I tried, Sherlock, I did. I tried to distract you..."

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. She was questioning his motives. _Of course_. It was true that he'd never gotten around to expressing himself, but… but there was a reason for that. "No, Molly. That's not the reason _why_."

She moved closer, her soft footsteps alerting him to her proximity. He still couldn't look, however.

"Okay, fine. Just tell me then." She drew a deep breath. "After all this time, all these years, why?"

Bringing his right hand up to the door, he looked at it and realised that he was shaking. _Far too much coffee_. He steadied himself and said, "I'll tell you." He paused. "But first tell me why you called out _his_ name."

At length, she said, "What? Who's name?"

He wasn't surprised by her question; he didn't think she had realised what she'd said. "Tom's." Leaning up against the wall to his right, letting it support him - God, he was tired - he whispered, "You said his name, not mine."

Silence rang out in the small house, deafening silence. Seconds turned into minutes and Sherlock began to wonder what was going on. He finally tilted his head enough to see her. She wasn't looking at him, but staring off into the room, her brows furrowed, lips thinned.

"I said… _Tom_?" she asked, still focused on nothing in particular. "Are you sure?"

"I assure you, Molly, it is something I will _never_ forget."

"When did I…?"

"At the _worst_ possible moment," he interrupted, wanting it all to be over - wishing they _weren't_ having the conversation in the first place.

Molly gasped as she turned and looked at him. Then she did the strangest thing: she smiled. "Is that why you left?"

He nodded.

Taking three more steps, Molly was suddenly close enough to touch him. She didn't though. "Will you sit with me and let me explain some things?"

He suddenly didn't want to hear the answer to his question. "There's nothing…"

"Oh, but there is. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you need to hear this." She took his hand, gripping it tightly. "Besides, you still owe me a 'why'."

Molly led him to the sofa and pulled him down to sit next to her. She had yet to let go of his hand. "So, to explain what… what _must_ have happened - because I don't actually remember saying that, you see - I have to tell you about how sex was with Tom..."

"For God's sake, Molly, I don't want to…"

"Please, I promise it's important." She squeezed his hand. "This is… it's a bit embarrassing for me, so just be, well, try not to be _you_ about it." Releasing him, she started picking at a loose thread on her jumper, her eyes focused on _it_ rather than _him_. "He couldn't make me come," she stated bluntly. "Not without my help that is, and even then, it was… a difficult task."

 _So, quite a lot of sex doesn't to translate to quite a lot of_ good _sex._ Sherlock managed to keep his comment to himself. Thankfully.

"Actually, that's something I've always had a hard time with. Don't know if it's me, physically or some kind of mental block or... But I just… Not every time, mind you."

 _Explains some things..._

Looking up at him with flushed cheeks, Molly seemed to be on the verge of tears all of a sudden. "I don't know exactly what I said that night, but I swear I wasn't thinking about Tom. After…" She sniffled. "After you went down on me - that's why I tried to stop you, I didn't think I'd be able to, well - anyway, after I came the first time, I was a bit out of it." She huffed out a laugh. "I could have been saying anything at that point, Sherlock. I could have been reciting Bayes' Theorem, for all I…"

" _Can_ you recite Bayes' Theorem?" he asked quickly.

"Not the point, Sherlock." Molly rolled her eyes. "Who knows? I might have been saying how much _better_ you were than him. Probably was, actually."

And then the clues all came together. Yet another epiphany. All her mumbled blathering started running through his mind. _Couldn't… So hard… Good… Didn't know… He… He… Never…_ Dozens of garbled words and **then** Tom. She was saying that he was _better_ than Tom. _Yes, it all makes sense now._ But suddenly Sherlock remembered something else she'd said...

"Beddder than jam!" he blurted out.

"What?"

"Molly, did you have sex with Moriarty?"

"Oh, my God!" She covered her face with both hands.

"Just answer the question," he demanded.

She nodded. "I never wanted you to know that. Never wanted _anyone_ to know..." Her words were muffled against her hands but even so, he could still hear her shame.

Tears were falling now, and he understood why. Moriarty had used her. Worse, the psychopath had used her to get to _him_. And now he knew to what extent. It wasn't some mutual one-night stand - that he was sure she could have easily brushed off - she had been a means to a nefarious end. Why that had to include sex, he didn't know and never would, unfortunately.

"Molly…" He reached out, pulling the crying woman into his arms. "It's okay. You didn't know."

"I can't..." The rest of her words were lost in jumbled a sob, as she cried into his chest.

"I know. But none of that is your fault and it's ancient history."

It rankled him, of course, the fact that Moriarty had touched her, had... But no, he'd deal with that later and privately.

She spoke again, but he couldn't even begin to understand it. Pulling back, he asked, "What was that?" and stroked her tear stained cheeks.

"I don't like to think about it."

"Then don't." He kissed the top of her head.

She started to wipe her face with the sleeve of her jumper but Sherlock quickly fished out a handkerchief, handing it to her with a small smile. Once her tears were dried, she tried to hand it back.

"Keep it," he said.

Nodding, she tucked it into her pocket. "Ah, are you going to answer my question now?"

Time for reckoning, it seemed, was upon him. She had been so brave, so honest - had admitted embarrassing and uncomfortable truths - how could he not tell her?

Clearing his throat, Sherlock moved slightly away from her and looked across the room. "That night, as you know, was a bad one. It's why you gave me a little puzzle to solve. But I realised something..." He turned and looked into Molly's bright, brown eyes. "... as you worked so hard to distract me from my many problems."

He knew that there were hundreds of flowery words meant to convey a man's feelings for a woman. They all were stored somewhere in his mind palace; he could access them at a moment's notice. He had used them, on occasion, to manipulate witnesses, suspects or anyone really to get the facts he required. In his _very_ distant past, he had even employed them to talk his way into someone's bed for the evening as a means to stave off boredom. A game he had once played to see how quickly he could make someone fall for his charms.

None of them were worthy of the woman who sat next to him on his best friend's sofa.

"I love you," he said simply. "That's _why_."

She didn't react, not at first and Sherlock watched for any sign of doubt. Would it be enough? They'd hurt each other, this time unknowingly, but the pain was quite fresh. He knew one thing, however: he could forgive Molly Hooper of just about anything if she could still love him back.

Finally she spoke. "You do, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded.

With a relieved sigh, and a brilliant smile, she said, "Good. That's… really… I love you too, of course." She shook her head, laughing. "But you knew that."

"No!" he said with far more vehemence than intended. "I mean, yes. I knew, but… It's, ah, good, I suppose, to hear. Always nice to..."

Thankfully, Molly ended babbling with a firm kiss. Snog, really.

* * *

"How did you manage to get biscuit between your toes, Rosie?" John asked his daughter as he unburdened himself of her bag and the pre-cooked meals his sister's wife had sent (they were unnecessary, but he couldn't tell the sweet woman no; besides, she was a good cook!).

"Mess!"

She _always_ took off her shoes on the long drive; this time she'd done a number in the back seat.

"Yes, luv. You've made a mess."

"Juice!"

"Give daddy a minute?" He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket on the bench by the door.

She took off into the lounge as John picked up the food and looked around. From his vantage point, he could see most of the room. It wasn't clean, though the dishes were gone. _Small victories._ He just hoped that the pair had done a better job cleaning up their relationship than they had his house.

Rosie was stood at the back of the sofa, which faced away from him, giggling. "Juice!" she demanded again.

"I heard you the first time, young lady."

Glancing at the coffee table as he passed, he sighed. _Good thing Rosie doesn't know what liquor bottles are_.

" _Seepin', daddy,"_ she whispered, leaning over the arm of the sofa. But John didn't hear her as he walked into the kitchen he shook his head. "Why did I actually think that I'd find a clean house when I got home?" He put away the food then shut the dishwasher door.

Rosie suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Sherwock! Mowee!"

John looked at his daughter. "What, Rosie? What about Sherlock and Molly?"

She grabbed his hand and led him back into the lounge, mumbling her godparents' names along the way. When they reached the sofa, he understood… completely.

"Ah, Sherlock," John said.

"Hmmm…" The detective didn't wake, just snuggled closer to the woman in his arms.

John rolled his eyes.

"Molly," he tried.

"Fivemoreminutes," she mumbled sleepily.

Giving up, he turned to his daughter and whispered, " _Listen, why don't we go to the park for a while and let them sleep?"_

"Seep!" she repeated.

John hushed her as picked her up, a big smile on his face.

* * *

 _Firstly, I have to say, I've got NO problem with Molly/Moriarty...yum! But her embarrassment_ fit _well into my narrative, so I used it. Hope you liked the fic. Thanks so much for reading, please give me some final thoughts. ~Lil~_


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